


A Life In Your Shape

by SoldierOfMyShadowyMind



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur doesn't know how to use words, Domestic Fluff, Eames is wonderful, Established Relationship, Hugs, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Minor Injuries, Soft Eames, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, or something like that anyway, touch-starved arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23596543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoldierOfMyShadowyMind/pseuds/SoldierOfMyShadowyMind
Summary: Eames entangles their fingers and the touch grounds Arthur and shakes him to his core. His perception narrows down to the twin points of contact and he’s so thoroughly distracted when Eames leans in, lips brushing against Arthur’s ear as he whispers, voice quiet and gentle and his smile evident in his tone, “Hello, darling.”It's been a week.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 161





	A Life In Your Shape

**Author's Note:**

> FINALLY. I didn’t think it would take me this long to get a story posted in this fandom. I also didn’t think this one would be the first when it finally (and we’re talking years here) happened. But since all my other wips keep running away from me, demanding more and more, this short, moment-in-time piece of fluff, entirely devoid of any plot, will be my debut. Hooray!
> 
> I am gifting this to my dear friend Liz who got me into the beautiful madness that is Arthur/Eames and whose fault it is that I now spend much more time than I have crying about these two. And of course it was during one of our conversations that the idea for this little piece happened. The working title for this was “Hideous but irritatingly cosy” since that’s how Arthur would describe Eames’s jumpers. Or, as my friend put it, “an aesthetic more things should strive towards.” I wholeheartedly agree.
> 
> I have to say I’m not one hundred percent happy with how this turned out (certainly didn’t mean for it to get this sappy) but I also don’t know what to change so there’s that. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!

It’s been a week.

Not that Arthur’s complaining. He got a lot done in the past seven days. He works very efficiently when there’s nothing around to distract him.

There is a snag to his current situation, however. The thing is, see, Arthur’s gotten rather used to manoeuvring around certain distractions, so much so that the sudden lack of them makes him stop in his tracks at inconvenient moments. It throws him. Worse still, the realisation that this has happened repeatedly over the past week is entirely laughable but considerably alarming.

This poses a major problem. One to which there is no immediate solution. For all his love of impossible things, Arthur gets cranky when a problem eludes capture and elimination. Especially a design flaw of a level of intolerability that his standards demand he dissect and eradicate with methodical precision.

Needless to say, Arthur is not in the best of tempers.

Seven days of silence. Seven days of a daily routine clearly not shaped for a single existence without feeling like he’s sorting through their lives like a pile of old folders and photographs forgotten in a dusty box on top of the linen closet. (It almost worked. Arthur is good at repression.) Seven days of the absence of distraction grating on his nerves.

Seven fucking days of waiting.

Well, that’s not entirely true now, is it. It’s been a month. And Arthur has no problem with that, per se, not at all. But Eames was supposed to be back a week ago and that’s the principal issue here because he’s still decidedly absent and Arthur hasn’t heard from him since. So really, it’s those seven days that Arthur’s got a problem with.

He called Yusuf to enquire after the development of the new serum they’ve been experimenting with. He called Cobb and ended up yelling at him over thousands of miles of telephone cable. He’s checked his usual channels, pretending not to look for scraps of information about a team two continents away. He did the grocery shopping, he reorganised the bookshelf twice (and then put it back the way it was), he’s even tried to sleep in.

And he’s usually good at that but the pillow just doesn’t have the right shape.

(He’s also met Ariadne for coffee which was rather nice, actually. They try not to talk shop but Ari is so very passionate about her work and watching her create even as they do nothing but sit and talk is enchanting and Arthur can’t bring himself to take that away from her. The business will, soon enough.)

Now that there’s nothing left to do, Arthur sits at the kitchen table, book discarded in the living room, hypnotising the wallpaper and passive aggressively drumming his fingers on the wooden table top.

The tap over the kitchen sink is steadily dripping water, not bothering to match Arthur’s rhythm.

Arthur inhales deeply and forces his fingers to still. Oh, he’s going to rip Eames a new one when the bastard finally deigns to contact him. Not about the sink or the frankly ludicrous post-it note with that silly smiley face winking at him from where it’s still pinned to the door of the fridge and telling him _Don’t forget to eat, darling_ , or the pile of books on Eames’s side of the bed that Arthur’s almost tripped over every morning for a little more than seven goddamn days (and this is not meant to imply that he’s been sleeping on Eames’s side, he’s not some sort of lovesick fool and anyway –)

It’s not that Arthur misses him, that’d be ridiculous, but it’s been a fucking week and it’d be nice to fucking know if the biggest fucking distraction he puts up with every day is still alive and worth all this swearing. If Arthur’s finding it increasingly difficult to make use of his rather impressive vocabulary that might just be a little worrying. For not being here, Eames certainly is being very distracting and it’s driving Arthur up the wall.

He’s not used to this anymore and no, this is not scaring him but it’s definitely cause for concern. There used to be a rhythm to being alone, simple, effective, and then Eames came and disrupted his perfectly fine, expertly crafted routine.

And now Arthur’s sitting here, silently fuming and wondering why the hell he bothers to still wonder about any of it after all these years.

So, the bottom line is, Arthur is fucking annoyed – about not being used to this anymore, about having gotten too used to the other _this_ , the _this_ that they are, about being annoyed about any of this in the first place. And he’s going to make Eames feel it. It’s his fault, after all.

There’s a noise at the door and Arthur is out of his chair, grabbing his gun and tucking it in the waistband at his back before he even realises he’s doing it. A key turns in the lock and the door is pushed open. A gust of cold air sweeps in together with the battered old travel bag that Eames throws into the corner to one side of the door. He rubs his hands together against the chilling temperatures outside and nudges the door closed with his shoulder before turning around, keys dangling from between his teeth.

Then he’s just standing there, unshaven, short hair a mess and he’s missing his coat and for a moment Arthur loses all his words.

Eames looks up, finds him standing there, smiles toothily, and opens his mouth.

“You fucking idiot!” Arthur snarls, effectively cutting off any attempt Eames might have wanted to make at speaking, pointedly ignoring the completely ungraceful yet showy way in which Eames drops the keys from between his lips, catches them in the palm of his hand and shoves them into the pocket of his jeans without taking his eyes off Arthur.

“Seven days, Eames. _Seven_ _fucking days_ and not a word. You could at least have had the fucking decency to let me know you’re not lying dead in a ditch somewhere.” He launches into a tirade, piling accusation upon accusation, and oh he’s just getting started. “I knew taking this job was a stupid idea, letting that man manoeuvre you into this position in the first fucking place was irresponsible, I keep telling you it’s dangerous to owe people favours. It’s bound to end badly and one day it will if you keep doing this. I thought you fucking _knew_ this but for all your talk you don’t possess the last shred of self-preservation, damn it, Eames. Damn _you_. Did you even consider, did you even stop to think for one _fucking_ _second_ what this would— what I would— This is why I said we shouldn’t take jobs apart anymore. Fuck.”

Arthur’s rambling and he can’t seem to stop. The words pour out of him, cursing every irresponsible, incompetent fucker in this business, having lost track long ago of what he’d meant to say in the first place. Eames just stands there, smiling, and takes it all without complaint. It’s infuriating. Arthur wants to punch something, he wants to feel something break under his hands, he wants Eames to react, to _do something._

Eames does something. He sighs and takes a step forward and then another and another until he’s right in Arthur’s personal space, standing in front of him with barely an inch between them. He’s still smiling, though it’s softer now and there’s an emotion in his eyes Arthur doesn’t let himself identify. (And it’s been _years_ , this is silly, he knows that look in Eames’s eyes and yet it still _does things_ to him.) Eames takes Arthur’s hands in both of his and steps impossibly closer. He looks at Arthur and his smile doesn’t falter even for a second. The proximity is dizzying and Arthur finds himself suddenly distracted by the blue of Eames’s eyes; he’s transfixed and without even noticing lets the words taper off into silence and _it’s been a week._

Eames entangles their fingers and the touch grounds Arthur and shakes him to his core. His perception narrows down to the twin points of contact and he’s so thoroughly distracted when Eames leans in, lips brushing against Arthur’s ear as he whispers, voice quiet and gentle and his smile evident in his tone, “Hello, darling.”

The simplicity of those two words steals Arthur’s breath. But he doesn’t have time to think because Eames is touching their foreheads together and his eyes are closed and it’s hard to tell from this close but he looks almost reverent. He gives Arthur a second, two, before he leans that little bit closer and even then he hesitates, an unnerving heartbeat passing between them, before he _finally_ kisses him. It’s a feather-light thing, a barely there touch of lips on lips and it’s _not enough_ but Arthur can’t move, doesn’t dare move.

“Arthur” Eames breathes, eyes still closed, mouth smiling. Eames always knows what to say. He’s always been better with words than Arthur.

Arthur answers by staying right here, in their little enclave of peace, slowly feeling everything settle around him. Pieces shift into their positions, the unruly, upset picture rebuilds itself. His mind calms and quiets and the restlessness he doesn’t admit he’s felt for the past week, the past month, drains from his bones. Everything is complete.

Arthur breathes in, feels Eames’s presence close to him and stays perfectly still. Eames mirrors him, doesn’t move, just smiles and breathes and he’s still only touching Arthur’s hands and it’s _still_ _not enough_. Arthur needs to touch him, feel that he’s here and he’s whole, but he doesn’t let himself. He doesn’t pull away either, though, because despite what everyone else thinks, Arthur might not be good with words when it counts but he knows he can have this now. He’s allowed to touch and he’s not afraid anymore of wanting it. He just doesn’t want to break this moment, this one, first perfect moment in a month.

Into the calm and the silence filled only with Eames’s smile, he mutters, “You were supposed to be home a week ago.” He tries his best to sound disapproving.

“Oh, darling” Eames whispers and there’s something in his voice that sounds terribly like regret.

Not a very successful effort, then.

Before Arthur gets the chance to rectify his mistake, Eames finally, _finally_ takes that one last step closer, his hands travelling up Arthur’s arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake, and he wraps his arms around Arthur, gathers him into a tight embrace and holds him there.

Any other day Arthur might have at least tried to affect a meek protest that he never means anyway. Now, he goes willingly, his body reacting to Eames’s touch like a drowning man to air. Eames’s jumper is slightly damp from the hostile weather outside but his hands are warm on Arthur’s back and his breath hot against Arthur’s throat where Eames nuzzles his nose against Arthur’s skin.

Arthur lets the touch overwhelm him for a moment, listening to the slowing beat of his heart echoing inside his head.

So okay, maybe Arthur’s got a problem with that entire month, after all.

Eames leans back just enough to be able to look at him and his eyes search out Arthur’s gaze. “I know, darling, I’m sorry” he says and there’s a slight downturn to his mouth that Arthur immediately hates. He wants the smile back. “I had to lie low for a while.”

Arthur frowns. “Why?”

Eames cracks a grin. It’s almost as good as the smile. “I might have got carried away” he says in that roundabout way he has when he’s admitting to something stupid. “I might have let myself be persuaded to do a little breaking and entering and might have been a little more careless than I should.”

Arthur narrows his eyes and the frown intensifies. He feels Eames’s arms tighten around him, just a fraction, as if Eames is afraid Arthur might shrug him off, free himself. Absurd. The thought hadn’t even entered his head.

“You _let yourself be persuaded_ ” Arthur echoes, deadpan. He knows perfectly well what Eames is saying between the lines, that he couldn’t keep his hands to himself, that the temptation was too much. Arthur refuses to let himself be charmed by it.

The grin on Eames’s lips grows and breaks into that smile again. He doesn’t loosen his grip. “We’re all thieves at heart, darling, some more literal than others.” And then he goes and _winks_ at Arthur and it’s atrocious, it’s ridiculous. “It would have looked lovely on you.”

Arthur jabs him in the ribs as best as he can, this close. “Fuck off.”

Eames laughs at that and Arthur feels it against his own body and it’s this that breaks the moment, that makes him snap, this casual insouciance with which he treats this moment. Arthur remembers his resolve and he’s not going to let Eames laugh it off, he’s not going to let himself brush it off, not this time. They’ve been at this long enough to take it seriously. Arthur suppresses the momentary surprise at the fact that he should be the one to remind them of it.

“This is not funny, Eames.”

“Well, it is a bit, pet” Eames starts to say but lets the words trail off when he sees the storm in Arthur’s eyes. A sigh escapes those lips that are no longer smiling and his expression sobers and changes into something more solemn. Carefully, he lifts a hand to Arthur’s face and lets his fingertips dance over Arthur’s skin. He opens his mouth as though to say something but then changes his mind and surprises Arthur with a kiss. It’s gentle, half apology, half question and Arthur chases his lips, kissing back with more determination, making sure Eames understands.

Eames always has and Arthur feels foolish for ever thinking otherwise.

“You’re not going to get rid of me that easily, Arthur” Eames murmurs into the space between their lips and suddenly it’s too much for Arthur to bear.

He snakes his arms around Eames’s waist and buries his face in his bright red, offensively patterned, and all around hideous but irritatingly cosy jumper.

There’s nothing clever to say so he says something foolish. “You’re irritating” he tells Eames. Or the jumper. Quite possibly both of them since one seems to inevitably come with the other.

Eames chuckles warmly. It’s a deep, rich sound and it envelopes Arthur in his hiding place. He feels childish but it doesn’t matter much because Eames doesn’t seem to mind. Arthur take a breath, two, and tries to find that calmness again. He inspects the aimless pattern on Eames’s jumper and shifts so that he’s leaning more comfortably against Eames’s chest as Eames rests his chin on Arthur’s head.

They’re still standing in the hallway, Eames’s travel bag discarded by the door, and nothing much has changed in a month and seven days, has it? Things remain in their shapes that despite their different edges somehow still fit together seamlessly. It’s good, that, because that’s what Arthur knows. He feels content in it.

He finds a loose thread at the shoulder seam of Eames’s jumper but he doesn’t feel the urge to pull at it and unravel. No need for that.

So he just lets Eames hold him in his arms a while and lets the moment pass and a few more after that. For once he doesn’t pretend he didn’t need this.

Eames tugs him closer and runs his broad hand down Arthur’s spine to rest on the small of his back. Arthur feels the moment he notices the gun. Rolling his eyes, he reluctantly leans back, at the same time deliberately pressing into Eames’s hands. He braces himself for the inevitable and looks up, meeting Eames’s gaze with all the exasperation of the last weeks. There is a sudden mischievous glint in Eames’s eyes and his mouth quirks up into a lopsided grin that really shouldn’t make Arthur’s heart squeeze the way it does.

Arthur shoots him a deadly glare. “Don’t” he warns sharply.

Eames arches an eyebrow but, mercifully, stays silent. For all of five seconds. “You are pleased to see me, though.”

Arthur groans.

***

It’s only later, when the duffel bag’s stored away and it’s long gone dark outside and he’s standing in the bedroom doorway, watching Eames as he pulls his jumper over his head and winces that Arthur notices the darkening bruise on Eames’s collarbone, the tiredness in his eyes, and he remembers that the idiot came home without his coat. For some reason it’s this that Arthur points out.

“Why, are you worried for my health, darling?” Eames grins toothily at him but he’s trying too hard and Arthur sees it all now, outlined in his features, the rasping edge in his voice, the way he holds himself up, not quite right.

He brushes off the witty remark with an impatient sweep of the hand, levelling Eames with a glare. “Of course I’m fucking worried for your health, you stupid fuck.”

For a second Eames looks like he wants to say something but then decides against it. The jumper drops from his loose grip onto the floor and Eames doesn’t pay it any mind, just sighs almost inaudibly and walks over to where Arthur’s standing and Arthur can’t help himself but to _look._ He feels maybe a bit bad, given the situation but it’s hard not to appreciate when he hasn’t seen him in so long. But then his eyes detect yet more bruises, on Eames’s ribs and sides and he feels even worse. His gaze comes to rest on Eames’s eyes that have gone strangely soft and the feeling morphs into unease.

“I had no idea, darling” Eames says quietly, reaching out a hand to brush against Arthur’s arm but Arthur pulls away, incredulous, because _what._

“You cannot be serious” he starts, voice flat, too stunned to find words because surely, Eames knows, he must, he always does, why should this be any different? “Don’t you tell me, you of all people, that this comes as a—”

“That you didn’t want me to accept jobs without you.”

“—surprise. Oh.” Arthur stumbles to a halt, dumbfounded. He stares at Eames, blinks, but there’s nothing but painful earnestness in his expression. So maybe he hadn’t said it out loud, that time. For the second time today Arthur doesn’t know what to say and for the second time it doesn’t matter. Eames leans down and kisses him softly and Arthur closes his eyes, melts into it. Why does he always seem to be a step behind?

His hands come up to rest on Eames’s bare chest almost of their own volition and he presses closer, deepens the kiss, relishes in the feel of warm skin underneath his fingertips.

Eames presses one last kiss to his lips before he draws back. He cradles Arthur’s face in his hands, the hold achingly gentle, and asks, entirely serious, “Have you been sleeping?”

And really, Arthur can’t be held responsible for what he says next. He blames the shock of the last few minutes, he blames Eames and his power of distraction, he blames _Eames_ , period, for blurting out, “The pillow doesn’t have the right shape.”

Eames’s eyes are bright and warm and a little surprised as they peer into his and for once Eames is the one without words. Arthur ignores the sting in his chest and swallows when he realises what he’s carelessly let show, waits for the reaction, the good-natured teasing comment (and how does Eames _do_ this, make him feel so much, so many things at once, still, it’s unsettling, it’s confusing, it’s—familiar). But then Eames shakes his head and smiles into his hair and Arthur releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding and lets his shoulders sag. God, he loves him.

Arthur doesn’t say _I missed you_ but it’s been a goddamn week.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to know what you think!


End file.
